Work Text:
WHICH one is more deadly?
A bullet? A knife? The death of an
entire city? Or,
allowing yourself to be {vulnerable}
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤagain?
ㅤㅤ"I allowed myself to FEEL."
And you do, you did.
You feel everything with such intensity, like one of the turning of an atom, the release of the heat. You feel something with such intensity, it engulfs you like a colossal wave of pressure, similar to a black hole that voraciously consumes.
Your brain, or whatever is stored inside the hollow of the entire 22 bones, told me that it was always drawn to the wrong things. [God, politics, ideas, ideals.] SCIENCE, and you relish the organic sensation of feeling your eyes straining and your bones rattling, the past and the future, the elements in the room. It's vulgar, it's i m m o r a l. You glee at the thought of dissecting the intricate labyrinth of one's mind, to resurrect the language that has long since faded, and to taste the dishonesty of a world that has refused to cleanse itself. You wait, as the clock ticks, the moment when the molecule splits. You wait, as the clock ticks, the time when the synapses click.
But you FEAR nothing, not the fra·gil·i·ty, not the vulnerability and how it stings and clings. Revoltingly red, nauseatingly alive. You see past and beyond (but also before, behind) the entire spectrum from 380 to 700 nanometers. You hear above 20,000 and below 20 hertz (everything, all the thing). Ultimately, you 𝚜𝚎𝚎/𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛/𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 nothing at all. Everything registers with the same fervor, the same decibel, and perhaps it's a good thing for one to always disintegrate, splinter, separate, and rebuild themselves all over and over and over again. There's no such thing as something pre- or well-defined, for the constancy in your atoms lies in the fact that they are {constantly} changing. It's a state of superposition, a paradox akin to that cat whose name I can't seem to grasp.
But you FEAR nothing, still. You have pulverized the line between reality and illusions.
Your body recalls that it was once a part of the cosmic mud, and the sun constituting the essence of your bones and blood. The death of a withering weed can seem as tragic as the death of your own self, but you fear. nothing.
𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭.